On the Rocks
by hardyxrose
Summary: A seedy London pb, a blonde bartender, and a grmpy detective. Hardy x Rose bar/pb AU.
1. On the Rocks

The sound of a barstool scraping against the floor makes her turn from the sink where she's drying glasses. Sitting at the bar is a bloke wearing a rumpled suit and an expression of pure melancholy. His face is unfamiliar, but the expression is not. He looks like he could use several stiff ones.

"What're you having?" the bartender asks, setting a coaster in front of him.

"Laphroaig, on the rocks," the man answers in a thick Scottish brogue, sounding immeasurably tired.

"Ten year okay, or do you want the eighteen?"

"Better make it the eighteen."

"Rough day?" she says, setting the drink in front of him.

"You could say that," he replies vaguely.

Over the years, she's learned not to pry, and at the end of the day, she tries not to care. Everyone jokes about bartenders being makeshift therapists, but she knows this to be true. A pub is a confessional, and she is the one who offers the troubled absolution, whether in the form of kind words or a scotch over ice. She winces as the man tosses back the drink in one gulp.

"Another," he says, his glass banging down on the bar top.

Wordlessly, she refills the glass, taking note of how skinny he is. Two scotches, she bets, is more than enough, but she never says those sorts of things out loud. She also notices that he is handsome, though not in a conventional sort of way. He's got a bit of a lazy eye, his face is lean and maybe a smidge too angular, and his lips look thin. His hair though is perfect, brown and tousled and sticking out in every which direction. She'd love to run her hands through it, to see if it's as soft as it looks. She's startled out of her fantasy when he finally speaks again.

"Are you married?"

The question catches her off guard. She's used to patrons, especially the male ones, trying to chat her up, but she doesn't get the impression that that is what he's trying to do.

"No, it's just me," she finally replies.

"Good," he says. He sips his scotch, swallows. "I'd stay that way, if I were you. Marriage is like a deck of cards."

"How so?"

"In the beginning, all you need is two hearts and a diamond. By the end of it, you wish you had a club and a spade."

She stifles a laugh, not wanting him to think she's mocking his pain. "That's terrible. Funny, but terrible. I've never heard that one before."

He grunts noncommittally, and swirls the alcohol around his glass. "The thrill is in the chase, never the capture."

She doesn't bother telling him how cynical he sounds. "Would you like another?"

"I can't afford another," he admits.

"Tell you what, mate. This one's on me," she replies, pouring him two fingers worth.

"Thank you," he says, squinting at her name tag.

"Name's Rose. Rose Tyler."

"Thank you, Rose Tyler. I'm Alec. Alec Hardy"

"Pleasure," she says as another patron flags her down.

After that it gets busy, and she gets so caught up pouring beers and mixing cocktails that she doesn't notice he's left until a few minutes after he's gone, leaving only his empty glass and a twenty pound note behind. It's when she goes to put it into the till that she notices there's a phone number scrawled on the back of it.

She calls him at 3am, and he answers on the second ring.

"Hi, it's Rose," she says, twisting a lock of hair around the hand that isn't holding the phone. "Did I wake you?"

He asks her if she wants to come over, and without thinking, she says yes. He gives her the address of a seedy hotel in town, and after a twenty minute cab ride she's standing outside of his room, shifting from one foot to the other as she internally debates whether she's actually going to knock or not. This is completely out of character for her, to hook up with a random stranger, but for some reason she's drawn to him. The door swings opens just as she raises her fist.

"Were you going to pace there all night?" he asks, not unkindly.

"No, sorry," she says, jamming her hands into her coat pockets as she walks past him into the hotel room. He shuts the door behind her, and they both stand there in uncomfortable silence.

When they finally tumble naked onto the bed together and he buries his face between her thighs, she finds that she doesn't mind his thin lips at all.


	2. Shiver and Shake

He wakes up to the sound of rain pounding against the window panes and a body, warm, soft, and naked, curled up against him. His arm is draped loosely over her waist, his face nestled against the nape of her neck. Her hair smells like fresh strawberries and cream, not of the cheap, chemical perfumes many women her age seem to favor. She smells good enough to eat. He buries his nose deeper, seeking the fragrant skin between her jaw and shoulder.

" _Holy shit_ ," he thinks with bewildered gratitude. " _She's still here. In bed. With me_."

Then he begins to panic a little bit, because he hadn't stopped to consider the possibility that a woman might actually choose to spend the night with him, rather than sneaking out at five in the morning under the cover of darkness, like a thief. As if on cue, Rose stirs, arches her back, and presses her bum against him. His body reacts immediately, his cock going rock hard at the touch of her bare skin against his own. A shiver runs down his spine and he tightens his grip on her, bucking his hips reflexively. She wiggles against him again, slow and deliberate, and turns her head just slightly, revealing the pale expanse of her neck.

Presented with such a glorious opportunity, he can't help but to nibble gently at the skin there. She moans appreciatively, and the sound sends a toe-curling bolt of electricity surging through his body. He still doesn't understand how or why such a voluptuous goddess chose his of all beds to warm, but he intends to take full advantage of the situation, before she inevitably realizes what a selfish and insufferable arsehole he really is. At the very least, he can send her on her way thinking him a capable and generous lover. Considering he's leaving London tomorrow, he thinks it unlikely she'll ever get the chance to find out otherwise.

In fact, he's counting on it.

Rose seems like a nice girl, the kind who would be better off without a petulant and maudlin man such as himself. That doesn't stop him though from wanting to hear his name gasped from her lips. He prays silently to whatever gods are willing to listen, " _...for once in my life, let me get what I want. Lord knows it would be the first time_."

She turns around, catching him by surprise. Her fringe is hanging over her forehead, half covering her eyes, and she's biting her lower lip in such a lascivious manner that it makes his cock throb just looking at her. When she tilts her head up to kiss him, he closes his eyes and swipes his tongue along the seam of her lips, silently begging entrance. Her mouth opens to him, tasting faintly of tea and honey, and he greedily drinks in the satin feeling of her lips on his and her pert little breasts pressed tight against him. He breaks the snog, drops his head to her chest, and eagerly begins to lave her nipples with his tongue, first the left, then the right, until both are dusky pink and aching and she's twisting against the sheets. He licks a wet stripe, from her nipples to her navel, to the apex of her trembling thighs. Putting his hands just above her knees, he gently parts her legs and lays his stubbled cheek against the smooth expanse of her left inner thigh.

"Oh God Alec, please," she groans, tugging roughly at his hair.

"Well...if you insist," he replies, trying not to sound entirely too pleased with himself. He buries his face between her legs, runs his tongue teasingly along her already slick folds, and wraps his lips around her clit. He flicks his tongue gently against the swollen nub several times in rapid succession, making her sigh and fist her hands into the sheets. Encouraged, he slides two fingers inside her and begins to pump them while he suckles at her core, and the sound she makes in response is thoroughly indecent. He doesn't stop until her breathy little sighs become shallow pants and gasps and her whole body shakes with the force of her orgasm. Satisfied, he collapses next to her on the mattress, sweaty and breathless.

"Oh, I'm not quite finished with you yet," she says, rolling over to straddle him.

"Oh?" he replies, cocking an eyebrow.

"Unless you weren't interested in shagging…?" she says, tracing circles around his nipple with her finger.

"No, I'm definitely interested," he answers, a little too quickly. They hadn't gotten quite this far last night.

She smiles at him, and her tongue pokes between her teeth. "I thought you might be. D'you have a condom?"

"Ah...no," he says sheepishly. "I'm only recently divorced, and my ex and I never used them. You're the first woman I've been with besides my wife in eighteen years."

"Seriously?" she asks, and this time she's the one raising her eyebrows.

"Seriously," he replies.

She seems to consider this admission. "I mean, as long as you're clean, I'm on the pill."

"I'm clean."

"You sure?"

"I had myself tested after I found out my wife was cheating. I'm clean," he says tersely.

She cringes. "So I guess that's why you're divorced?"

"Something like that, yeah," he replies, eager to change the subject and get back to the task at hand.

"I totally just killed the mood, didn't I?" she asks, covering her face with her hands and peering at him through her fingers, chagrined.

"Why don't you ask my hard on about that?" he responds wryly.

She laughs then, a genuine, girlish giggle, and the sound warms him better than a shot of whiskey. It could be because she's the first woman in a while to pay kind attention to him, or it could be because she's beautiful, but he never wants to forget the sound of her laugh or the look of her tongue-touched grin. He honestly can't remember the last time a woman smirked or smiled at him with anything other than pity or scorn.

Perhaps he's not _completely_ irredeemable.

She leans down and snogs him then, slow and languorous, and he feels a flash of regret knowing that there are unlikely to be more kisses like this one in his future. Not that he deserves them, of course, but oh God, does he want them. He wants them as badly as he wants to numb his pain and forget the woman who simultaneously destroyed his career and broke his heart.

Rose reaches between them and grabs him firmly by the base of his cock. Stroking up and down his length with her hand, she guides him to her entrance, and finally, blissfully, sheathes him in her wet velvet heat. Stars explode behind his eyes, and he feels the muscles of his abdomen tighten.

" _Oh no you don't!_ " he thinks furiously to himself, silently commanding his affection-starved body not to betray and humiliate him. He wants to savor the experience of being with her, make it last as long as possible. God knows he's probably headed for one hell of a dry spell, for the sake of his sanity he's going to need something for the spank bank. He grits his teeth together, tightens his grip on her waist, and thrusts his hips, plunging himself deeper into her slick silken warmth. She gasps and rocks against him, creating an even more delicious friction that makes his nerve endings sing. Somehow, perfectly in sync, they both roll over so that he's now on top of her.

"Fuck me. Hard," she whispers in his ear.

"Oh, with pleasure," he says, sliding almost all the way out before thrusting back in. Hands braced on either side of her shoulders, he pumps into her, relentless as the sea crashing into the shore. She lifts her legs and wraps them around him, locking her ankles behind his back and forcing him him even deeper. Her gorgeous honey-colored eyes never leave his, and for a moment he can almost believe that the connection between them is more than just purely physical. The tension within him builds to an almost unbearable level, and he finally empties himself into her with a strangled cry. Panting, he collapses next to her on the bed, his breathing ragged and his heart still racing.

"Goddamn, that was good," she says breathlessly.

" _Good?_ " he thinks to himself. " _That was bloody brilliant!_ " But all he says out loud is, "Yeah."

"Mind if I smoke?" she asks, already leaning over to grab her purse off the floor.

He does mind, actually, but he just shakes his head. He doesn't want to give her an excuse to get out of bed quite yet.

She lights a cigarette, inhales, and exhales a thin plume of smoke. "So. Breakfast?"

His heart leaps at the suggestion of spending even more time with her. He knows he should say no, for both of their sakes.

But instead, he says, "Yes."


	3. Regret

He's not really hungry.

Mesmerized, he watches Rose methodically slather butter on her toast and add too much sugar and cream to her coffee. He still can't believe that she hasn't scarpered off yet, or that she doesn't mind being seen with him out in public. Maybe she doesn't read the papers or watch the news, he muses. Obviously, she doesn't realize she's having breakfast with the Worst Cop in Britain. He has to believe if she did know, she'd probably want nothing to do with him. Hell, he doesn't even want anything to do with himself lately. Not since Tess lost vital evidence while she was conducting her sordid little tryst. The worst part about the whole situation is that he hadn't even suspected a thing. If the evidence hadn't gone missing, he probably would've never known about the affair. Some detective he's turned out to be.

"Hey, are you alright? You've hardly touched your oatmeal."

He snaps back into himself at the sound of her voice. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."

"About?"

"Nothing in particular."

"You're not a very good liar, you know," she says, not unkindly.

"Why did you call me? We barely talked, you hardly knew me, but you called me. Why?" he asks before he can change his mind and chicken out. He's still desperate to know what this woman sees in him.

She shrugs offhandedly. "Dunno, really. You were cute, funny, and you left a good tip. I was lonely, you seemed lonely, too. Why'd you leave me your number?"

He can't very well tell her the truth (that he was looking for a revenge shag), but he doesn't want to lie, so he compromises. "Because you were kind to me."

"Is kindness that rare for you?" she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Yes," he replies, not bothering to elaborate. He doesn't want to bore or burden her with the boatload of baggage he's toting around.

She reaches out across the table to clasp his hand briefly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says, withdrawing back against his chair. "I'm kind of a bastard."

"Could've fooled me," she says, spooning raspberry jam onto her toast.

He's not sure what to say in response to that. Could it be possible that she actually does like him? Well, she seems to at any rate, but then again, she doesn't really know him at all. He's torn between wanting to stay and bask in the warmth of her glow and knowing that he's just prolonging the inevitable. The longer he holds out, the more it's just going to end up hurting. The longer he stays with her, the more he will fantasize about all the things that could never be. Why does he have to fall in love with every woman he sees who shows him the least bit of attention?

"How old are you?" he blurts out awkwardly.

She raises her eyebrows, but if she thinks the question rude she doesn't mention it. "Twenty-five. Is that important?"

"No," he says, not sure if he should feel guilty or relieved that she's at least ten years older than his daughter and less than fifteen years younger than himself.

"Quid pro quo, Alec. How old are you?" she asks, propping her chin up with her hand.

"Too old," he replies, and that is the truth.

She shakes her head and chuckles. "You can't bullshit a bullshitter. How old are you, really?"

"I'll turn thirty-eight later this year."

"You're older than you look," she finally comments a few moments later.

"I could say the same about you," he answers back, a slight edge in his voice.

"Touché."

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence that neither one of them attempts to break. He takes a few bites of his sodden, joyless oatmeal and sips his too weak and overly sweet tea, trying not to stare at her as she nibbles delicately around the edges of her toast. Her tongue darts out to lick away a bit of jam at the corner of her mouth, and he swallows hard, watching. A million questions that he shouldn't ask her run through his mind, but he stays silent. He should go. He should really, really go, before he says or does something stupid or embarrassing.

"Did you want to take that oatmeal to go, love?" the waitress asks, stopping at the side of their table.

"Oh. Um, no, I think I'm done with it," he says, pushing the bowl away. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, you're the one paying for it," she says matter of factly, clearing the dirty dishes and silverware from the table. "I'll be right back with the cheque."

"Are you quite sure you're alright?" Rose asks him again after they've paid the bill and left the restaurant.

"Fine," he lies. "I just need to get going. I have to get back to my hotel and pack for check out."

"Oh...alright," she says. "Well, I had a really nice time with you."

"Oh believe me, the pleasure was all mine," he replies sincerely.

"Could I call you again sometime?" she asks.

"I'm not from around here," he says, pulling at his collar. "Just passing through. Don't know when I'll be back again."

"Right," she says, and he can see the disappointment in her eyes. "I guess this is goodbye then."

"Suppose so."

She wraps her arms tightly around him, and something about the gesture feels even more intimate than what they had been doing in bed less than two hours previous. Regret that he has to leave floods through him. She leans up on her tiptoes and presses her lips gently against his own. "See you around."

And then he's watching her walk away, hips swaying salaciously. In his head, he can just about hear John Travolta saying, "I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave." He gazes longingly after her, and it's only when she disappears around the corner that he turns the opposite direction and begins trudging back to the hotel.


	4. Kiss and Tell

The next time she sees Alec Hardy is several weeks later, on the television.

She's at the launderette with her flatmate, Jake, when she flops down onto one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and sighs with boredom. The old, decrepit dryers don't work especially well, and more than a half hour later her clothes are still damp. She takes out her phone and tries to browse Facebook, but the signal is so weak that nothing will load and she finally gives up.

"Why are we still coming here? Half the shit is broken or doesn't work right," she complains.

"Because this is the only twenty-four hour launderette within walking distance," Jake replies.

"There's got to be another one. We're in bloody London!" she insists.

"So Google it," he says mildly as he loads towels into a washer.

"I would, but the signal in here is for shit," she pouts, shoving her phone back into her pocket. She struggles to find a comfortable position on her chair, which she decides was designed by Satan himself. Arms crossed, she slumps back against the hard plastic in defeat. In the corner, a small television plays the news, but the volume is so low that the words are indecipherable. She watches, because there is nothing else to do but wait for the laundry to be done.

And then all of a sudden, there he is. She can't hear him, of course, but she recognizes those melancholy brown eyes, that thin, stubbled face. Getting up off her chair, she moves closer to the television, but the words are still indistinguishable. The expression on his face though is not. He looks angry. She can just barely read the blurb scrolling along the bottom of the screen: suspect in child murder turns himself in.

Jake looks up from folding his clothes to see her staring at the television, rapt. "What is it?"

Startled by the sound of his voice, she turns to look at him. "Hmm? Oh, nothing. I just thought I recognized that bloke on the news. He looks like someone who came into the pub a few weeks ago."

Jake glances up at the television. "That guy? Isn't he the one the Daily Herald named the Worst Cop in Britain?"

"Is he? Why?" Rose asks, raising her eyebrows. She hates to admit it, she doesn't really keep up with the news. Spending most of her evenings listening to other people's sob stories and confessions is depressing enough at times, she doesn't like to go home and to be bombarded by images of the starving, sick, and downtrodden, too.

"Something to do with a botched murder investigation, I think? I don't know, I just saw the headline in passing when I walked by the news agent's a couple of weeks ago," he answers. "To be honest, I only noticed it in the first place because the detective was cute."

Rose rolls her eyes at that. "Typical."

Jake shrugs. "You know how I am when it comes to guys with scruff. And he had nice hair. Looked very soft."

"It was," she says without thinking.

He gives her a funny look. "How would you know?"

"Because I shagged him," she replies nonchalantly, enjoying the look of shock on Jake's face. He'd been encouraging her for weeks to get over Jimmy by having it on with another bloke.

"You _shagged_ the Worst Cop in Britain?!" he exclaims.

"Well, he might be the worst cop in Britain, but he certainly wasn't the worst lay," she answers. "Unlike many others, he didn't need a map and instructions to get to my clitoris."

"You naughty little thing! I can't believe you shagged a bloke and didn't tell me," Jake says, hands on his hips.

"I shagged him, Jake, it's not like we're dating. It was just a one night thing," she says, picking at her fingernails.

"Only the one night? If I managed to get that into bed, I'd never let him leave!" he declared.

"He was just passing through. I asked to see him again, he told me he wasn't from around here. It is what it is," she says with a regretful shrug.

"Oh, I know that look. You've got it bad for him," Jake singsongs.

"I do not. I don't even know him. There wasn't exactly a lot of discussion," she says, irritated.

"So how was the sex?" he asks relentlessly, leaning on his elbows.

"You're so nosy," she protests.

"That's because I haven't been laid in a while. I have to live vicariously through you," he says innocently.

"You brought a guy home from the club a week ago," she points out.

"For me, that is a while."

"You're such a slag."

"You say that like you haven't known me for years. Anyway, don't leave me hangin', how was it?"

"It was fine. I mean...it was good. He was definitely more experienced and attentive than Jimmy ever was," she says, trying to keep her tone casual. It would be so easy to gush about the morning she spent with the sexy Scottish detective, but she wants to pacify Jake's questioning, not elicit more.

"Well Jimmy was a needle dick wanker, so that's not really saying much," he presses, evidently unsatisfied by her vague description. He's not going to let her off easy this time.

She sighs, knowing she's probably going to give in. "It was bloody fantastic. Best I've had in a long time."

"So on a scale from cocktail sausage to Mrs. Wilson's prize-winning cucumber, how big?" he asks, grinning.

She makes a disgusted face, but still laughs. "What, you think I carry a tape measure around with me that I just bust out the second a guy gets hard? What difference does it make how big?"

"Go on, indulge your old pal Jake," he coaxes.

"Well, it was definitely bigger than a cocktail sausage, but I don't think it was quite as big as a cucumber," she says dryly.

"You're no fun," he pouts.

"You say that like you haven't known me for years," she fires back. "If you want someone who will kiss and tell, ask Shareen. She definitely gets more action than me anyway."

Jake sticks his lower lip out at her. "Shareen isn't here right now. Besides, you always had a flair for the dramatic. You tell better stories. Also, the clothes aren't even half dry, so you might as well tell me."

Rose sighs, knowing there's no use in trying to keep anything from her best mate. She's not sure why she's so reluctant to share the details of her little tryst with him, because she usually tells him everything. Why should this be any different? "Fine," she relents. "He came into the bar one night, and we chatted a bit. He drank scotch, and left me a good tip. But he left his number, too, and he was cute, and I was thinking about what you said, about trying to get over Jimmy, so I called him and we ended up sleeping together. We went out for breakfast afterwards, but he completely clammed up, barely said a word to me the entire time. I asked him if I could see him again, and he got all uncomfortable and told me he wasn't from around here."

"Do you still have his number?"

"Yeah, it's saved in my phone, but I haven't called or texted him."

"Well why the hell not?"

"I got the impression that he didn't want to be contacted," she answers, just a trace of bitterness in her voice.

"Well, maybe you should," Jake asserts. "What do you have to lose?"

"Suppose," she mutters in reply.

"Well go on then. Text him," he encourages.

"Yeah, but what would I even say?" she asks, not bothering to mask her frustration.

"You could start with hello," he suggests.

"The signal in here is for shit," she reiterates as she slips her phone out of her pocket. She doesn't have to scroll far to get to him in her contacts. Her finger hovers uncertainly over the screen, and she finally taps the little text icon. She types and erases several messages before she finally settles on four words: wish you were here.

She presses send, and waits.


	5. Message Not Delivered

Her phone buzzes almost immediately: _Error: invalid number. Message Not Delivered_.

"What'd he say?" Jake asks curiously.

"Nothing," she replies with barely concealed disappointment. "The message didn't go through. He must not get texts."

Jake snorts. "It's 2013, Rose. My eighty year old grandmother texts. And Facebooks. Did he give you a fake number?"

"No, because the night I went over to his hotel I called him first, and he answered. But he did also say he wasn't from around here, and it was a London phone number he gave me. Maybe he just gave me his room number instead of his mobile," she muses.

Jake purses his lips, but says nothing.

"What?" she asks.

"Nothing," he replies, too quickly.

"What?" she says again, narrowing her eyes at him.

"You said you got the impression he didn't want to be contacted again. Maybe he was married," Jake suggests reluctantly.

"He said he was recently divorced, actually. His wife had cheated on him. He seemed real bitter about it, so I didn't ask any questions."

"Sounds to me like your handsome detective wasn't quite over his ex."

"Perhaps not. But then again, neither am I," she admits.

"You could always look him up on Facebook," Jake offers.

"Yeah, but what'd be the point? If he wanted to keep in touch with me, he would've given me his real number," she says, chewing on her fingernails dejectedly. "I was obviously just a rebound. S'okay, it's not the end of the world. At least the sex was good."

"I'm sorry boys suck," Jake says, putting his arm around her shoulders in consolation.

"Eh, who knows? Maybe it's for the best," she shrugs. "I've got enough baggage for two people already, I don't need a man with several tons of it himself. I've had quite enough of that babysitting Jimmy for as long as I did. I need a bloke who will take care of me for a change."

Jake nods emphatically in agreement. "Don't we all?"

Just out of curiosity, she Googles him when they get home from the launderette. Turns out, he's not the Worst Cop in Britain after all.

His ex-wife is.

The first result that pops up is an article in the Broadchurch Echo, _Britain's Worst Cop Vindicated_. She reads the whole sordid tale from start to finish, about how Hardy's wife had lost vital evidence in a child murder case in Sandbrook when it was stolen from her car while she was at a hotel with her lover. Not wanting their teenaged daughter to know about her mother's infidelity, Hardy had shouldered the blame and been crucified in the media for it. Now, he'd evidently cracked a different child murder case in a little coastal town called Broadchurch, but was being relieved of duty for personal reasons.

"No wonder he's so bitter," she mutters to herself.

 _Two weeks later…_

"According to WebMD, you're pregnant," Shareen says without looking up from her laptop. "That, or you have food poisoning and PMS. Or possibly pancreatic cancer."

"I'm not pregnant," Rose insists, even as she hangs her head over the toilet, fighting yet another of the sudden waves of nausea that have been overtaking her for the last week. "I can't be pregnant, I'm on the pill."

"I hate to break it to you, doll, but women get pregnant on the pill all the time. Nothing is 100% effective, except for abstinence. And that's boring. Although probably not as boring as having a kid, come to think of it."

"I'm _not_ pregnant. I take my pill everyday like clockwork. I never miss a dose, and I always take it at the same time. I've only had sex once in the last six months, for Pete's sake! It's got to be food poisoning."

"Food poisoning that causes frequent urination, backaches, and sore boobs?" Shareen says doubtfully. "And for the record, once is all it takes."

"You think I don't know that?" Rose says, glowering.

"I'm just saying. Look at my cousin Heather. She got pregnant the night she lost her virginity."

"Heather doesn't have a baby."

"No, she doesn't," Shareen says meaningfully.

"So I have food poisoning and PMS. Life is rarely convenient, these things happen," Rose says, though it sounds weak even to her own ears.

Shareen gets up and goes to the bathroom medicine cabinet. She takes a small box off the shelf and sets it on the sink. "Well, there's one way to settle this. Take a pregnancy test."

"Why do you have a pregnancy test?" Rose asks, leaning back on her haunches.

Her friend rolls her eyes. "Because I'm easy. I keep them around, just in case. You get a discount when you buy more than one at a time."

Rose picks up the box, and looks doubtfully at the picture of the smiling woman on the front of it. "She looks way too happy for something as stressful as a pregnancy test."

"It's only stressful if you don't want to be pregnant," Shareen says, crossing her arms. "Do you?"

"I've never given much thought to it, really. Jimmy had no interest in kids, so neither did I," she answers. "Christ...what if I am pregnant, Shareen? Off a bloody one night stand, no less. My mother will kill me."

"Take the test," her friend repeats firmly.

"Okay, okay, fine," Rose acquiesces, her stomach reeling as she gets to her feet. She hikes her skirt up, and sits on the toilet. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry," Shareen says sheepishly, turning her back.

She's so nervous that she can't go at first, and the silence in the bathroom is deafening until her bladder finally loosens up. She gets pee on her hand, curses, adjusts the test stick and tries again. When she's sure she's hit it at least once, she sets the test on the sink and waits, her knees pressed together. "How long does it take?"

"About two minutes."

She counts the seconds down in her head, and it's the longest 120 seconds of her life. She reaches for the test, but her hand falters. "I can't do it. You look."

"Okay, but no shooting the messenger," Shareen says, picking up the test. She peers down at the results window and squints.

"Well? What does it say?" Rose asks, and her heart is beating in her chest like a caged bird.

"Uh...yeah, it's um...it's not food poisoning," her friend says, setting the test down on the sink.

Rose grabs it up, wanting to believe that Shareen had read it wrong. Incredulously, she looks at the test window. "It's just two goddamn smiley faces. That's not clear at all! What is this, Schrödinger's pregnancy test?"

"Who?" Shareen asks, confused. "Anyway, I don't know what a Humdinger is, but you're definitely pregnant, Rose. That's why there's _two_ smiley faces. False negatives sometimes happen, but false positives rarely do."

"It's not Humdinger, it's Schr-you know what, forget it," Rose says weakly. "I mean, false positives are rare, but rare doesn't mean impossible."

"And denial ain't just a river in Egypt."

"Well...shit," she says, slumping against the side of the sink.


	6. In For A Penny, In For A Pound

When he answers his door, Becca Fisher is standing outside, looking moderately uncomfortable.

"Can I help you?" he asks. It comes out sounding a lot more rude than he'd intended, and he cringes inwardly. He's really bad with stuff like this.

"There's a girl waiting for you. Downstairs in the bar," Becca says, shifting from foot to foot.

"Reporter?" he demands.

"I don't think so, no. She said she knew you," Becca replies, looking off to the side. "Are you going to come down, or shall I tell her to clear off?"

"No, I'll come down," he says, stepping outside and shutting the door behind him. "What does she look like?"

"Young. Pretty. Blonde," she replies, her tone clipped.

For a moment, he wonders if it's his daughter, but he thinks it unlikely she'd just show up without calling him. Still, a little germ of unease uncurls deep in his gut as he follows Becca back downstairs. When he enters the bar, he sees a woman sitting, her back turned. He can tell from the back of her head that it's not Daisy-Daisy is strawberry blonde, and this woman's hair is the color of honey. Something about her seems familiar, and then she turns around.

"Rose?" he says, surprised.

She smiles at him, but it doesn't touch her eyes. "Sorry to just drop in on you like this, but I couldn't reach you by phone. I needed to talk to you."

"About?" he questions, raising his eyebrows.

She clears her throat, and nods her head at Becca, who's still standing in the doorway. "Perhaps there's somewhere more private we could go?"

"Oh. Um, sure. Come up to my room?" he says, his sense of unease deepening.

"Lead the way," she replies, getting up off her stool.

Back up in his room, she sits on the edge of the bed. He can tell she's nervous about something by the way she's fidgeting and looking everywhere but at him.

"How did you know where to find me?" he asks, leaning against the door. He has to remind himself that she is not a suspect and this is not an interrogation.

"I saw you on the news, and then I read about the murders in the paper. It wasn't especially difficult to track you down," she answers, looking at her feet.

"Is everything okay?" he presses, wanting to get to the bottom of this.

"Not exactly, no," she croaks, and her shoulders start shaking as she begins to cry.

"Oh, hey, now don't do that," he says, mildly alarmed. He sits next to her on the bed, and awkwardly pats her on the back. To his further surprise, she leans against him and cries into his shoulder. Caught off guard, he sits, frozen, as she sags against him.

"I'm sorry," she sniffles. "It was a three hour drive, and I wound myself up pretty tight."

"It's alright," he says, at a loss for what else to say to comfort the obviously distressed woman.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and lays her hand on his knee. "I don't even know where to start."

"At the beginning might be a good place," he suggests.

She nods, and attempts to compose herself. "I just want to say I'm sorry, because I know you didn't sign up for this."

"Didn't sign up for what?"

"Seeing me again. I know you probably didn't want to."

"Well, that's not entirely true," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just thought you'd be better off if I didn't. See you again, I mean."

This time, it's her turn to ask the questions. "Why would I be better off not seeing you?"

"Because my life is a mess," he answers. "In more ways than one."

"Yeah well...me too," Rose says, her breath hitching in her throat.

Her nervousness is starting to wear off on him, and he's anxious to know what's brought her all the way from London to see a sad, broken man. "Rose, what's wrong?"

She bites her lip, and folds her hands in her lap. "I'm pregnant."

He stares back at her, uncomprehending. "What?"

"I'm pregnant," she says again. "And it's yours."

The gravity of her words hits him like a ten ton truck, and he inhales sharply. "How? You told me you were on the pill."

"I am," she replies. "I mean, I was. The doctor's not sure exactly what went wrong. He thinks maybe I metabolized the drug too fast, but yeah...I'm pregnant. I'm really sorry. I know this isn't...ideal."

"Don't apologize," he says faintly, and he can barely hear himself over the ringing in his ears. "I'm the arsehole who invited a girl back to my room and didn't buy condoms first. Like I was saying...you're better off without a knob like me. I'm the one who should be sorry."

"Don't say that," she insists. "This isn't your fault. It's just a thing that happened. An accident."

"Are you going to keep it?" he asks bluntly.

"I haven't decided yet," she answers, voice wavering. "Thing is...I grew up without a dad. I know what it's like. And I wouldn't wish that on a child, especially not my own."

He struggles to find his courage, to say the things that he knows she needs to hear. "I mean, whatever you want to do, I support your decision. But you don't have to go at this alone. Not if you don't want to."

"No?" she says, sniffling.

"No," he confirms, taking her hand in his own. "It's half my fault you're in this mess. I'm not going to leave you to clean it up by yourself. That wouldn't be fair. There's just one thing, though…"

"What's that?" she asks, tilting her head up to look at him.

"I'm...I'm not quite well," he says, swallowing. "When I was in London, I was there because I was seeing a cardiologist. He told me if I want to live to see 40, I've got to get a pacemaker. And my boss told me I can't come back to work until I've had the surgery. But...there's a chance I might die on the table. And if I did...well, obviously I wouldn't be around. To help you."

Rose quietly absorbs his admission before speaking again, slow and soft. "In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose."

"Do you want a baby?" he asks her gently.

"I really don't know." she answers. "But I don't think I could live with myself if I got an abortion, either. I'd always wonder...what could've been. I mean, I guess I could have the baby and put it up for adoption...but then I'd still be wondering."

"Sounds like maybe you've answered your own question," he says, stroking his thumb soothingly along the inside of her wrist.

"What about you? Do you want a baby?" Rose asks, bordering on plaintive.

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter what I want. This is a choice that will affect the rest of your life. You have to be the one to make it."

"I know that. But I'm still asking. Alec, do you want to have a baby? With a complete stranger? With me?"

"I never imagined I'd be a father again. I have a fifteen year old daughter. Daisy," he says, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "We don't really talk so much lately. I made some mistakes, wasn't the best dad, and I don't think she's quite forgiven me for it yet."

"I read about what you did. Taking the heat for your wife so your daughter wouldn't think less of her. I think that's pretty noble of you," Rose says, squeezing his hand.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So…," he says, tentatively spreading his palm against her belly. "I guess we're going to give this a go then?"

Rose smiles, and this time her tongue pokes its way between her teeth. "Yeah, I suppose we are," she says, covering his hand with her own.


	7. It's Not Like That

Long after Rose has fallen asleep, he is still awake, staring. Staring at the clock, staring at the ceiling, staring at the almost full moon outside the window. Staring anywhere but at the face of the woman who has swept into his life like a gale force wind and left him utterly unsettled. His sense of unease from earlier has only deepened as a litany of doubts and worries parade through his mind. In his head he can hear his ex-wife, her voice full of scorn. " _What the hell do you think you're playing at, Alec? Girls like Rose don't go for guys like you. She's only here because she wants something from you. Her fifteen minutes of fame, or money, maybe both. She probably wasn't even on the pill. She probably got pregnant on purpose to lure you in, and you fell for it. Hell, it might not even be YOUR baby, you have no idea, she could've slept with a dozen other men between now and then. And she's just barely ten years older than your daughter, for shame. Just wait til the press gets wind._ "

"No, it's not like that. The whole world isn't out to get me. Stop it, just stop it," he hisses angrily to himself, breaking the silence in the room.

Rose stirs and turns over towards him. "You alright?" she murmurs sleepily.

"Fine," he grunts. "Just a bit restless. Go back to sleep. I'm sorry I woke you."

"S'okay," she yawns, nestling against him. "Mmmm...fancy a cuddle? You're so nice and warm."

The request catches him off guard, but he drapes his arm over her waist and rests his fingers tentatively against the small of her back. She sighs and snuggles closer, and without thinking, he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. The sudden urge to protect Rose and their unborn child is fierce and overwhelming, and unconsciously, he draws her tighter against him. The feeling of her body pressed against his is enough to calm and reassure the voices in his head and finally, he is able to sleep.

"Please just kill me now," Rose moans into the bowl of the toilet.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he says, holding back her hair. "It'd be considered double homicide. I can go downstairs and get you a ginger ale from the bar, though."

"Would you please?" she says, lifting her head just slightly.

"Yeah, of course," he replies, dropping her hair carefully against the back of her neck and tucking it behind her ears. "You stay here, I'll be right back."

"Where'm I gonna go, Ipswich?" she asks crossly. Promptly thereafter, she vomits, again.

"Sorry, sorry, I'll be right back," he apologizes as he backs out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He hurriedly throws on a shirt and a pair of trousers and walks downstairs. It's still relatively early in the morning and Becca is sitting at the front desk, her nose buried in a book.

"Hey," he says uncomfortably, sidling up to the desk.

Becca looks up briefly from her book, a tattered bodice ripper with a Fabio look-a-like on the cover. "Hey," she replies dismissively.

He plows on anyway. "Sorry to bother you, I know the bar isn't open yet, but I was wondering if you had any ginger ale? Got a bit of a stomach ache."

She sighs dramatically, and sets down her book. "So go to the Kwik Save. They sell Pepto-Bismol."

He blinks, taken aback by her frosty tone. "I'm not supposed to mix that with my heart medicine. Can you just do me the favor and get me a ginger ale? I'll pay you for it, if that's what this is about."

"I bet you will," she mutters under her breath as she gets up from the desk, leaving him to stand there, bewildered. She returns a moment later with a can of Schweppes. "That'll be £2."

"For a single can of ginger ale?" he replies, incredulous.

"£2, or you can go to the Kwik Save," she answers curtly, banging the soft drink down on the desk.

"What the hell is your problem?" he shoots back, trying to fight off the anger that is starting to rise.

"Oh, like you don't know!" she spits.

"No, actually, I don't," he replies, gritting his teeth.

She glowers back at him. "I may not be the paragon of morality, but I don't appreciate people calling whores to my hotel. I have a bad reputation, I don't need the Traders to have one as well."

"That's what this is about? You think Rose is a prostitute?" he asks in disbelief. "How desperate do you think I am?"

Becca stares back at him silently.

"How many whores do you know that will spend the night?" he asks her with barely contained fury.

"There's a price for everything," she replies nastily.

"She's not a whore!" he shouts.

"Who's not a whore?" Ellie asks, walking into the lobby.

Alec whips his head around to look at her. "Miller. What are you doing here?"

Ellie raises her eyebrows at him. "Uh, I've been staying here for over a week now, remember? Anyway, who's not a whore?"

"The woman he took up to his room last night, apparently," Becca replies before he has a chance to answer.

Ellie's mouth drops open so far he thinks she might have unhinged her jaw. "You took a woman back to your room last night?"

"Why is that idea so shocking?" he asks, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He tries to will himself to calm down before he has another episode.

"So who's the lucky lady?" Ellie asks, the corners of her mouth turning up just slightly. Now she's interested.

He blushes red. "No one. Just a friend from London. It was too late and too far for her to drive back home last night, so I offered to let her stay with me."

"Did you now?" she replies, her grin widening.

"It's really not like that," he insists.

"Oh no, no, no. Of course not," she says with a perfectly straight face.

He scowls at her. "I'm not having this conversation with you right now."

"How about later then?" Ellie asks, almost gleeful.

"Miller, just drop it," he says, taking a £5 note out of his wallet. He throws the money down on the desk in front of Becca and grabs the can of ginger ale.

"Keep the change," he calls over his shoulder as he stomps away, then mumbles under his breath. "You bloody wench."


	8. You're A Good Man, Alec Hardy

When he gets back upstairs to his room the bathroom door is still shut and the shower is running. He stands outside, poised to knock and make sure she's okay, when he hears the soft and unmistakeable sound of crying from inside. His fist hovers above the wood hesitantly, and he finally raps his knuckles against the door. "Rose?"

There is no answer. When he tries the knob, the door is unlocked, and he slips inside the steamy bathroom. He can see her fuzzy outline through the pebbled glass of the shower door-she's sitting on the floor with her head between her knees. "What's wrong?" he asks, slightly breathless. His stomach is still churning and his heart pounding with the anger of Becca's false assumption that Rose was a prostitute. Not to mention the fact that he can probably expect a full-on interrogation from Miller later.

"Nothing. 'M fine," she says, her voice shaking.

"I'm a detective. Don't bother lying to me," he says gruffly.

The bathroom is silent except for the sound of the water hitting the tiles. "Rose?" he prompts.

"My mum is going to kill me. My whole life, I had it drilled into my head that she didn't want me to end up like her, that I had to do better. And here I am, pregnant by a guy I don't even know, unmarried, making barely enough money to afford my share of the rent, no A-levels, no qualifications besides mixing drinks...my life is a bloody disaster!" she sobs. "How the hell am I going to raise a baby?"

He is silent, searching for the right words to say. He doesn't know how to comfort her, or what to say to reassure her that it was all be okay. He's not even sure it will be okay. He could die without ever knowing their baby's name, she could be left to raise the child alone. Finally, softly he says, "What can I do to help?"

She hesitates before answering. "Well..maybe there's one thing you could do."

"Name it," he says immediately.

"Come with me to London? Meet my family, my friends. We'll tell them you're my boyfriend. That way, later, when they ask about the baby's father, I can tell them that they met you," she answers.

"You haven't told them yet?" he questions, raising his eyebrows.

"Not yet, no. Only my mate Shareen knows," she replies quietly. "I have my first ultrasound in two weeks...you think maybe you could come up then?"

"I don't drive right now. I'm not allowed to because of my heart issues," he apologizes.

"How do you get around?" she asks.

"Mainly my partner, Miller. Or former partner, I guess," he says. "We've both been relieved of duty for the time being. The former detectives club. Do you want to continue this conversation when you've finished your shower?"

She gets up off the floor and turns the water off. Her body is a blur through the textured glass, but his mind remembers her curves and fills in the blanks and with a flush of embarrassment, he feels himself growing aroused. Silently, he curses his traitorous body. Could the timing be any bloody worse?

"Could you throw me a towel?" she asks, and he hastily grabs one off the rack and practically flings it over the shower door at her. He turns his back, closes his eyes, and breathes in slowly through his nose, counting backwards from ten. Now is not the time.

"You alright?" she asks, and he can hear the shower door open and shut before he feels her hand on his shoulder.

"Fine," he answers. "So...London?"

"I can always drive down, spend the night, and drive back with you to the city in the morning. I'd really like for you to be there. For the ultrasound. I don't know when I'm going to be ready to tell my family...and I really don't want to go alone," she says, and he can hear the tremor in her voice even as he feels her wrapping her arms around him from behind and laying her cheek against his back. "Will you come with me?"

"Yeah," he says, his throat going dry. "Course I will."

"You're a good man, Alec Hardy," she declares.

He doesn't have the heart to tell her that she's wrong.

An hour after their conversation in the bathroom, he stands by the side of her car and hugs her goodbye.

"You're not getting off that easily," she says, grabbing him by his lapels and tugging him down to her.

She presses her lips firmly against his own, and when he inhales in surprise she nibbles gently on his bottom lip. His hands drop from her waist to her bum before he can even think about who might be watching them, and he leans into the kiss.

"I'll see you in two weeks," she says, cupping his face briefly with her hands.

"Rose...what are we?" he asks, grabbing her wrists.

She smiles sadly. "I wish I knew."

"Well...we've got time to figure it out, haven't we?" he says, letting her go.

"I suppose so, yeah," she replies, opening the car door. "Goodbye, Alec."

He watches her drive away, until her car is just a blue speck on the horizon, before he turns around and walks back inside. The lobby is deserted, thankfully, and he trudges slowly up the stairs to his room. Dismayed but not surprised, he sees Ellie leaning against the door.

"What do you want?" he says wearily, withdrawing his room key from his pocket.

"What do you think? Who's the mysterious 'friend' you were snogging outside?" she demands.

"You saw that, huh?" he says, unlocking the door. "Spying on me?"

"It was hardly spying when all I had to do was look out my window," she huffs.

"Whatever. Look Miller, it's complicated. Let's just leave it at that, okay?" he says, leaning in the open doorway.

"You always shut me out. After everything we've been through, you still won't let me be your friend!" she accuses.

"Miller, trust me...you don't want to be my friend," he says soberly.

"You're right, I don't, but unfortunately you're all I have left since most of Broadchurch is shunning me," she fumes.

"Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Look," he says uncomfortably. "It's nothing personal. I'm not trying to keep secrets from you. But it really is complicated. And out of respect for my friend's privacy..I really can't talk about it quite yet. That's how rumors start. The less you know, the better. No one can use knowledge you don't have against me or you."

"Fair enough," Ellie sighs, knowing he's right. The press has been relentlessly after both of them to speak out after Joe's arrest. "Would you like to get take away with me and the kids later?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll see you later," he says, finally closing the door.

He feels a little guilty for blowing Ellie off, but his thoughts are a mess and he's afraid of what he might say out loud, before he's had a chance to sort through it all. He flops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling.

"What the hell have I gotten myself into he?" he mutters, to no one in particular.


End file.
